


Young God

by Writcraft



Series: Little Lion Man [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Harry Potter, Boys In Love, Desk Sex, Established Relationship, Implied Switching, Implied/Referenced Death of Lucius and Narcissa, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerful Harry, Rimming, Top Draco Malfoy, post-sex fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 22:50:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: Draco's in a mood. Harry helps.





	Young God

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Drarry scene from my novel length fic [Little Lion Man](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12276732?view_full_work=true) a One Direction/Radio One RPF fanfic set in the Harry Potter Universe. Primary ship Nick Grimshaw/Louis Tomlinson. I'm pretty sure this can be read as a standalone established relationship PWP but it probably makes more sense read in the context of the Little Lion Man 'verse. The title and lyrics at the start are from Halsey's 'Young God'

_but do you feel like a young god?_  
_you know the two of us are just young gods_  
_and we'll be flying through the streets with the people underneath_  
_and they're running, running, running again_  


“There’s been another one.” Draco slides off his coat and hangs it on the hook in Harry’s office. He closes the door behind him with a flick of his wand and rolls up his shirt sleeves. It’s still peculiar to him, how comfortable it feels to be unbuttoned around Harry. 

“Another suicide?” Harry frowns and looks up from his papers. “Who?”

“A Squib based in Ipswich. It’s just like last time. There was an attempt to cast something in the sky, which didn’t work. That’s all I know. Weasley’s with Dawlish getting more information. The _Prophet_ were sniffing around but I managed to secure a guarantee that it won’t appear in the papers.”

“How?” Harry puts his quill down and leans back in his chair. He’s still frowning and something about his expression rankles.

“Money, Potter. What else do you imagine a Malfoy has to offer?” Draco studies his fingernails, pointedly not looking at Harry. There’s a faint blot of ink on his wrist that looks like a bruise.

“Don’t do that.” Harry’s voice is clipped.

“Do what?”

“You know perfectly well,” Harry says. 

Draco does, but he’s not going to admit it. He stands and looks at a globe which Harry keeps on his bookshelf. It’s old and tattered. Somewhere between the end of the war and Harry’s ascent in the Ministry it found its way from Sirius Black’s old room at Grimmauld Place into Harry’s office. Draco spins the globe and watches it turn on its axis. Harry told him once he always wanted to travel after the war. It’s been over a decade and Draco can’t even remember Harry having a proper holiday. He spins the globe again. He wonders why Harry keeps it close when it’s nothing more than a reminder of lost dreams.

“Malfoy?”

“What?” Draco tries not to snap. He doesn’t know why he’s in such a fucking mood today, but he is. The day has felt like one more dark cloud rolling in on the back of a violent storm. He stops the globe with his fingertips and rubs his left temple as his head starts to ache.

“You know I don’t give a fuck if you pay off some journalist not to print our business?” 

Draco isn’t sure whether Harry means Ministry business or the business of he and Harry, another matter that’s costing him a few Galleons to keep quiet. “I know you pretend not to give a fuck.” Draco turns back to face Harry and sits in the seat opposite his desk. He puts his feet up and Harry shifts some papers to make room. “But you do.”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t want you to waste your money.”

Draco reaches for Harry’s wand on the desk. He moves it across the backs of his fingers, up, down, across. It’s still a miracle that Harry lets Draco do that. A miracle that he sits there unarmed and doesn’t even flinch. Draco doesn’t tell Harry that the magic from his wand soothes the chill beneath Draco’s skin. It warms him, inside out. “I have money to burn.”

“Even so, I don’t want you to throw cash at hiding things that don’t need to be hidden.” Harry’s eyes bore into Draco’s. “I couldn’t care less if people know I’m gay.” There’s a firm tilt to his jaw, a determined air about him. Harry’s the sort to go charging out and declaring his love loudly enough for everyone to hear, bugger the consequences. He hasn’t properly considered for one moment how his choice of partner might make all of his work on gay lib or whatever the fuck he wants to do utterly redundant.

“We’ve discussed this, a hundred times before. You know it’s not about that.” Draco closes his eyes and tries to focus on Harry’s magic. He always feels like he’s disappointing Harry when he looks at him for too long, particularly when they talk about this. “Mother and father aren’t around anymore to tell me I haven’t found the right girl yet. If the _Prophet_ wants to speculate over whether I prefer to top or bottom, they’re welcome to it. _Charming_ little piece on that in Wednesday’s copy, by the way.” Draco opens his eyes again, putting Harry’s wand back on the desk. He misses the feeling of part of Harry close to him almost immediately. “It’s about the fact you’re being gay _with me_. That’s why I’m trying to keep it relatively quiet, for reasons that should be blindingly obvious.”

“I like being gay with you.” Harry’s lips twitch and he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it all fucked up. He’s clearly decided to leave the battle for another day. “For the record.”

Draco lets himself drink in Harry with a greedy gaze. He’s in a misshapen green jumper and faded jeans, but somehow the artfully rumpled look just adds to his charm. The usual rules regarding office attire don’t seem to apply when you’re Harry Potter. Draco can’t bring himself to be too put out by the fact he’s been stuck in a stiff suit all day, because it’s utterly disarming when Harry looks relaxed. Besides, Draco’s never been one to complain about fine tailoring.

“I like being gay with you too.” The corner of Draco’s mouth curves into a smile against his will. “For the record.”

It always happens, when he’s around Harry. The unexpected warmth which seeps into the cold, hollow bits inside him. The dark clouds that break apart and finally, finally let in the sun’s rays.

“What did Wednesday’s _Prophet_ conclude?” Harry stands and moves to the front of the desk, perching on the edge next to Draco’s feet. “About your preferences.”

“They read me all wrong.” Draco gives Harry a full smile this time, his bad mood from earlier sliding away just a little more and the chill in his chest thawing. “As per usual.”

Harry’s throat works, and his hands tighten on the edge of the desk. Draco doesn’t miss the flicker of uncertainty in Harry’s expression or the way his magic flickers and shifts. A lot of people equate Harry’s magic with raw, unbridled strength, but Draco is finely attuned to the instability of it and Harry’s perpetual battle as he struggles to balance his inner turmoil. Harry has a desperate desire to save everyone, even the things that can’t be saved. At times his magic becomes a battleground, where rage and grief for things lost swell and cloud the unflinching capacity for love and the overwhelming desire to do good. Sometimes Draco catches the look behind his eyes and it’s wistful and soft, full of a childlike hope for better times which rubs uneasily against the reality of ongoing battles and adult responsibilities. He’s seen too, the moments of furious righteousness when the wrong kind of vengeful magic whispers seductive things and must be swallowed back and kept at bay. Draco’s been so focused on his own bad mood, he didn’t pick up on it at first. The erratic pulse of something not-quite-right with Harry’s magic. The way his smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. 

Draco slides his feet from the table and stands, close enough to Harry to feel the warmth of his body. Harry’s magic pulses, twists and settles. He keeps his gaze carefully on Draco. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” Draco traces a finger over the haphazard _H_ on Harry’s jumper. An old gift from Molly Weasley. Harry must be feeling out of sorts if he’s dressing in cosy things that remind him most of the only family he’s ever really known. Sometimes Draco wishes he was selfless enough to urge Harry towards one of the Weasleys – Charlie, who’s been eager to take Harry for a tumble for years. Someone who doesn’t have Draco’s past. Someone brave enough to make the right choices. But Draco’s always been a coward and he knows he’s going to hold onto Harry just as greedily, selfishly and wantonly as he can for as long as Harry will allow it.

“What’s on your mind?” Harry tugs Draco closer, his hands firm on Draco’s hips.

“You.” Draco presses his face into Harry’s neck where his scent is strong, where Draco’s tongue can find his pulse point. “Always you.”

“Same.” Harry’s breath leaves him in a rush, his head tipping backwards and his hands twisting lightly in Draco’s hair. Only Harry gets to make him dishevelled. “Same.”

“Do you remember that summer?” Draco brushes his lips against Harry’s and the kiss feels ghostly, a reminder of times past. 

“Summer Lovin’,” Harry says. Draco thinks it’s a Muggle reference. They press closer, Harry’s body responding to Draco’s touch as he pushes his hands under Harry’s jumper. “You still called me _Scarhead_ and _Potter_ , then.”

Draco touches the pad of his thumb to the faded scar on Harry’s forehead. “I still do,” he murmurs. He adds _Potter_ for good measure and his lips smile around the name. 

“You’ll always be Malfoy to me too, I suppose.” Harry keeps Draco close against him. “I’m glad it happened.”

Draco swallows. “You’re glad you got pissed enough to kiss me?”

“Yeah.” Harry grins and he extracts his wand, flicking it and clearing his desk of paperwork before dropping the wand carelessly next to his discarded glasses. “Fancy reminding me how it went?”

Draco laughs. They were both so lost. Somehow, as they groped around in the darkness, they collided together. Draco won’t ever forget the moment they fused under the blistering heat of a June sun, with Harry’s lips tasting like strawberry cider and his glasses dangling from his fingertips as they kissed until the sun set. They did a lot more than kiss that night, and Draco knows what Harry’s asking.

“You’re jumpy tonight, darling.” Draco pushes Harry’s jumper up, over his head and drops it on the floor. He uses Harry’s wand to lock the office door, still amazed that it responds to him at all. 

“Antsy.” Harry’s breath leaves him in a huff and he unbuckles his jeans. He knows how Draco likes him. “Can’t concentrate on paperwork.”

“Can you ever?” Draco plucks at the waistband of Harry’s boxers, watching as he slips off his shoes and socks. “These too.”

“I’m getting there.” Harry pushes off the desk and takes off the remainder of his clothes until he’s finally, gloriously naked. Draco drinks in the sight of him. Knows he has a scar which stretches from his underarm to just above his hipbone, from a bloody fight with Yaxley shortly after the war. He knows that there’s a mole just above Harry’s heart and another small, jagged scar on his torso. Draco’s tasted every single one. Touched every line and blemish and stored them away so he can always recall Harry in exquisite detail when it’s been too long without him. Harry is lithe and perfect, a trail of dark hair leading from his belly button down. Draco doesn’t even bother pretending not to stare as Harry gets half-hard under his gaze.

“We didn’t have a desk, that summer.” Draco presses close to Harry, kissing him soundly until they’re both breathless. “Turn around.”

“Unlucky for us.” Harry laughs, turning without question. He presses the flat of his palms against the desk and arches when Draco moves closer, tracing the bumps and knots of his spine with his fingers. “God, come on, will you? I’ve been waiting all day.”

Draco unbuckles his belt slowly. He likes the way Harry shivers when he hears Draco’s trousers being opened. Likes the anticipatory shudder of breath which leaves his parted lips and the way his legs fall indecently open. It’s something Draco never thought he would get to see – Harry Potter stretched out like this. It’s something he’s still not sure he deserves. He murmurs a cleaning charm which makes Harry groan, his breathing ragged in the still room. With a sigh of pleasure, Draco sinks to his knees. Even when Harry wants Draco to be rough and toppy, Draco still likes to take a moment to worship at bits of Harry’s body. He likes to start with his tongue. On Harry’s cock, in Harry’s mouth or licking at his arse until Harry’s spit-slick and quaking. It’s a strange, intimate pleasure and even though Draco wasn’t Harry’s first in everything, he was his first in this and that makes it _something_. Something more than getting off. Something more than an exquisitely, filthy need to taste and to claim.

Draco presses his fingers into Harry’s buttocks and separates them, so he can see the furled, dark patch of skin and give himself easy access. He squeezes and digs his fingers in harder than he needs to because he can tell from the way Harry’s nearly bursting out of his skin that he’s not interested in tender love-making tonight. Sometimes he is. Sometimes he curls up next to Draco in one of the homes they both detest, and he talks about nightmares and the future, ending the night with broken whispers of soft, romantic dreams. Sometimes they clutch onto one another like drowning men and the air fills with whispered _I love yous_ which still seem to surprise them both when they say it out loud. Other times? Well, other times are like now. Harry bent over and arching, bucking, pulsing under the rough touch and firm press and pull of Draco in his body. Sometimes it’s toys and belts and rough slaps against skin, a dizzying mess of come, perspiration and skin that tastes like salt, sweat and Harry. Harry’s always so alive when he fucks like that. His heart pounds nearly loud enough to feel and they grasp at hot patches of damp skin, tug at hard flesh. It’s divine.

Draco runs his tongue along Harry’s crease and it earns him a whimper and a low huff of laughter which gets choked back when Draco does it again, and again. He takes his time sliding his tongue over Harry and nudging it into him. He loves it when Harry’s body isn’t quite open, still just the slightest bit resistant to his touch. He loves taking Harry to a place where he forgets it all, just for a minute. Draco tongues Harry slowly and it’s glorious, filthy and it gets his cock hard and eager for attention. When he rubs his fingers against Harry, he gasps out a _stop_.

Draco pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. When he speaks, his voice is gruffer than usual. “No?”

“No fingers. I want you now.”

“Ah.” Draco gets to his feet and squeezes Harry’s arse. He knows Harry’s relaxed but he also appreciates Harry likes to feel it, sometimes. He likes a reminder of the dull ache and burn of being taken when he shifts in his seat and moves around the room. Draco banishes his trousers, shoes and socks quickly with a flick of his wand and a hurried, muttered spell. He leaves on his shirt, unbuttoning the waistcoat and dropping it to the floor. There’s something Harry likes about Draco being not quite naked as he takes Harry like this. It’s there in the way he groans when Draco pushes him belly down on the desk and grips a rough hand in the tangled mess of his hair. “Ready?”

Harry sounds like he’s smiling. “Always.”

Draco smirks. He lubes himself and Harry generously before pushing into him. It takes a moment, that first nudge and the push back against him. Then Harry opens up to him and Draco pushes hard, settling himself fully inside Harry’s body as he draws a low cry from Harry’s lips. He keeps one hand in Harry’s hair and steadies his hips with the other. “You want a good fucking, darling?” Draco slides out a little, pushes slowly back in. He knows it’s not enough, can tell by the way Harry responds through gritted teeth.

“You know what I want.” Harry pushes back against Draco and it earns him a twist to his hair which makes him groan, low and throaty. “You want me to beg?”

Draco _hmms_. “You know I do.”

Harry grinds against Draco. “Fuck me, Malfoy. Just like you’ve always wanted. Don’t pretend you haven’t. I know the way you look at me.”

Draco’s breath catches and _oh_. They’re doing this, are they? Fucking for the first time, angry and wretched, just like the summer it happened. Fucking because all the fight went out of them and it was the only way to still feel alive. Fucking with the coppery taste of blood on their lips, fists curled in cotton and rough brickwork scraping their bare skin. Up against a wall in a filthy alley, with a litany of curses and hearts full of rage and anguish. Draco closes his eyes, heady summers and Harry’s body hot beneath his hands coming back to mind. They made it to bed eventually. They took the time neither of them expected to have to learn every inch of one another, but sometimes it's like being back there all over again. Raw, desperate and bone-shakingly good. Draco slams into Harry, hard enough to push him right up against the desk. He puts both hands on Harry’s hips and whispers a spell which sends bonds snaking around Harry’s wrists and pulling them taught. Harry cries out Draco’s name and it’s like manna from heaven, the taste of Harry’s desire on the air and the sound of his voice leaving him with trembles of need and want.

Draco thrusts into Harry, squeezing, grasping, dropping a rough hand to Harry’s cock when he’s close after pulling him back just enough to get decent access. He wraps his fingers in a tight circle around Harry, the familiar girth and length no longer a surprise but still enough to send a jerk of pleasure through Draco’s body. He knows what it feels like, having Harry inside him. Knows how it feels to be on the receiving end of this primal, animal need that overcomes them both. He tugs on Harry’s cock and twists his wrist a little, rubbing his thumb over the damp head and letting his fingernail drag ever so lightly in the slit. He mutters another spell which leaves his hand wet with lube and Harry’s cock in his slick fist makes obscene sounds in the room. The air is full of them. Full of Harry’s magic, mingling with Draco’s own. Full of sweat and the heavy weight of the day. The dark clouds lift and the ire slides from Draco’s knotted muscles, the anger from before melting away as he loses himself in the tight heat of Harry’s body. 

His orgasm takes him almost by surprise, the hot burn of it slicing through his body and jack-knifing him deeper into Harry. Harry’s bitten-off cry extends it, his cock pulsing in Draco’s hand as he clenches around Draco’s cock and wrings every last bit of pleasure from his sated body. When Draco slides out, Harry looks thoroughly debauched. He’s bound in place, holding himself steady even as his legs tremble. The _sight_ he makes. It’s both intensely arousing and at the same time it does something strange to Draco’s heart. Makes it thump a bit harder, makes it clench and twist for Harry. _His_ Harry. Draco’s made mistakes and every time he kisses Harry, holds him and promises to fight for him he repents, just a little bit more. He moves his fingers down Harry’s spine.

“Enough?”

“Mmm.” Harry shakes his head, flexing his hands. “A bit…a bit more.”

“Anything you want.” Draco’s in that post-orgasm haze, where his mouth is thirsty for Harry’s skin. He brushes his lips against parts of Harry’s body where the sweat’s gathered and tastes him. He slides his hand, still sticky with Harry’s come, between the cheeks of Harry’s backside. He pushes two fingers inside Harry’s clenching body, listening to the sounds from Harry, the pants and the dull moans, the _please, god, please_ of someone who wants it to ache, wants that moment when it’s too close to sensitive. Draco fingers Harry slowly, the sticky remnants of come and lube easing his passage. After a short while, he slides his fingers from Harry’s body and unties his bonds. “Come over here, will you?”

“ _Fuck_.” Harry stands on wobbly legs and Draco pulls him over to the sofas. He pushes Harry down and moves over him, capturing his lips in a heated kiss. It’s better, like this. Better being able to see Harry’s eyes and feel the heat of his breath against his skin. Better with Harry’s hands loose and free to roam over Draco’s body, touching him with a reverence Draco’s quite sure he doesn’t deserve. “Feel better?” Harry smiles against Draco’s neck, biting lightly. If he gives Draco a love bite, Draco’s going to fucking kill him.

“Marginally.” Draco leans up and brushes Harry’s hair from his face. He wonders if he looks as shagged out as Harry does. “Less antsy?”

“ _Marginally_.” Harry rolls his eyes and mimics Draco’s response. “Fancy a pint, later?”

“Can do.” Draco really wants Harry all to himself, but he supposes he can squeeze in a glass of wine at the Leaky. It helps Harry sometimes, being around people. He can drink one beer too many and sing at the stars as they walk part of the way home, forgetting they’re wizards for a bit and pretending they’re just Draco and Harry. They like their pretend games, on occasion. The ones that erase a history neither wants to be reminded about. They’ve tried it all. Put on those masks of professionalism like Healer or Professor and then used them in entirely unprofessional ways. It’s only gone wrong once, when Draco asked Harry to be an Auror and it triggered too many memories for both of them. It was too close to home, being interrogated. Too close to the month Draco spent in Azkaban and the memories of his father's last, frantic moments. 

“I’m disgusting.” Harry gestures to his body which is sticky and sweaty. He is, unfortunately for Draco’s heart, the very opposite of disgusting. He’s hot, masculine and pleasingly messy. “I need one of those showering charms.” He extends his hand and his wand and glasses fly into it, without him speaking a word. It sends a shiver down Draco’s spine, because sometimes he forgets Harry is, well, _Harry_. He shifts off Harry and stands, collecting their clothes and chucking Harry’s towards him. They cast their spells and by the time Harry’s dressed, Draco’s hair is finally back to normal without so much as a strand out of place. He pours them both a brandy and takes the armchair, sitting in it and watching Harry. 

“Weasley will probably want to talk to you later.”

“I know.” Harry nods and winces as the brandy slides down his throat. Draco watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “I’ll tell him to come to the Leaky.”

“Oh, wonderful.” Draco rolls his eyes. He doesn’t really mind Weasley now. They have a truce, of sorts. Complaining about one another is more of a recurring joke than anything else.

“Play nicely.” Harry grins at Draco. “What was up with you, earlier?”

“No idea.” Draco pulls a face. “Time of the month.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, right.”

Draco turns his glass in his hands. “It’s the anniversary of my parents’ death tomorrow.”

“ _Shit_.” Harry’s eyes widen, and he nudges his glasses up on his nose, looking contrite. “I forgot with everything going on. I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. I wish I could forget too.” Draco leans back in the armchair, his jaw working. “Will you come with me?” He leaves _to the graves_ unspoken. Harry knows what he’s asking.

“Of course.” Harry moves to sit in between Draco’s legs, leaning against his thigh and kicking his feet out underneath the crook of other leg. He’s so peculiar. He has all the expensive, plush furnishings the Ministry can buy, and yet he chooses to sit on the dusty floor in between Draco Malfoy’s legs. Draco toys with the inky strands of Harry’s hair and takes comfort in the warmth of his magic which feels calm and settled now, as opposed to jumpy, uncontrollable sparks. “We’ll get some flowers from Godric’s Hollow, if you like. The cottage is nearly ready and the garden’s still in full bloom, even though half of it should be dead by now.” It seems apt that Harry’s garden continues to flourish, even in the chill of the winter. Godric’s Hollow has seen enough death. A garden that flowers all year round is the least Harry deserves. Draco thinks of Godric’s Hollow as a place where things won’t die. Not like the Manor, not like Grimmauld Place. Those houses are still as dark and dingy as ever.

“We could stay there tomorrow night.” Draco closes his eyes, the little cottage making his chest warm. Harry’s already got a cuckoo clock with names of his friends on. It nearly broke Draco’s heart when he saw his own name, nestled on the end of a fine clock hand pointing at the note _with Harry_. Right where he should be. “I don’t think I could be in the Manor and Grimmauld Place is just as depressing.”

“Yeah, lets.” Harry tips his head back on Draco’s leg to look at him. “We can move in, soon. We just need to get the spare room sorted for Teddy and the Weasley kids.”

“Don’t forget Pansy.” Draco smirks at Harry who pulls a face.

“Can’t wait. I might have to go out when she comes over.”

“Just like I plan to make a sharp exit if Ginny decides to pop round for a game of Quidditch in the garden.”

Harry laughs under his breath. “We probably shouldn’t be this jealous of ex-girlfriends. We’re both gay, after all. Also, you can’t play Quidditch in the garden, you tit. How big do you think this house is? We’re not all posh enough to own stately homes in Wiltshire.”

Draco decides not to point out he’s jealous of anyone who got their hands on Harry before he did. He thinks Harry knows and he suspects the feeling is mutual. 

There’s a ping from Harry’s desk and Harry groans, getting to his feet with a glance at the clock. “Who the hell wants to see me at this time?” He puts his glass on the coffee table and flicks his wand to unlock the door.

“Weasley?” Draco glances at Harry.

“No. Some kid from Hogwarts is asking for me, apparently. Louis Tomlinson.” Harry frowns. “Don’t know the name, do you?”

Draco shrugs. “Never heard of him. If he’s from your fan club, I’m going to hex his bollocks off.”

Harry grins, cheeky, warm and full of vibrant energy. Draco is so fucking in love with him, it hurts. “At least I still have a fan club.” Harry’s still not over the hilarity of Draco’s fan club disbanding over an argument over whether or not Draco should grow his hair.

“Potter.” Draco sips his brandy and glares at Harry. “Sometimes, you really are a prick.”

Draco crosses his legs as Harry heads out of the office and into the corridors to meet Louis Tomlinson, whoever the fuck that is. Draco can hear him laughing and if he allows himself a broad smile in the privacy of Potter’s office, it hardly matters because no one’s around to see it.

_~Fin~_


End file.
